


Thirty

by hedda62



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Birthday, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-02
Updated: 2012-10-02
Packaged: 2017-11-15 12:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hedda62/pseuds/hedda62
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Vorkosigans (and Simon) celebrate, suffer through, and recount thirtieth birthdays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirty

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to linman/penwiper26 for beta reading. Tel's [timeline](http://archiveofourown.org/works/224813) was also of great help, although like Piotr I am playing with chronology (perhaps not uncanonically).
> 
> Thirty is an age that continues to fascinate me even when long past it myself. (And no, I don't remember my thirtieth birthday either.)

"Here's a good spot," said Miles.

Reluctantly, Mark folded his tunic into a pad and lowered himself onto it. Miles, attired in his oldest fatigues, sat directly on the damp ground, which was covered with grass mixed with some sort of creeping plant life that was not grass. Presumably Miles knew neither of them was allergic to it, whatever it was; where was Ekaterin when you needed her?

Lunching al fresco had not been Mark's choice, but Miles had been persuasive and charming and all manner of Milesian things, at a time of the morning when Mark hadn't yet woken up enough to resist. And Kareen wasn't due at Vorkosigan Surleau until the evening, so he had no reason to deny his brother a picnic. Besides, now that he was awake, and the nausea-inducing lightflyer ride was over, he was glad to be away from the warmth back at the house, up in the cool Dendarii air, and gazing at the practically people-free scenery.

They were above the reservoir here, so beyond the sinuous blade of shimmering water they could see more green hills, soft and voluptuous, like Kareen planted with tiny trees all over. There were still patches of red-brown, too, but the terraforming seemed to be progressing well. Mostly down to giving nature a boost, in this part of the District, but Mark hugged to himself the vision of cleared agricultural land elsewhere that was his doing and Enrique's.

"You could terrace those hills," he said, "and grow grapes."

"No. No matter how splendid the wine," Miles replied. "Speaking of which...?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Miles took the bottle and glasses out of the basket and eased the cork out with a pocketknife corkscrew and his thumbs. "Laid down by Grandfather the year Da got married for the first time. I thought the occasion deserved the vintage," he noted, and poured Mark a glass.

Mark took it and watched Miles pour himself a more modest amount. "Am I supposed to keep an eye on you and make sure you don't drink yourself into a seizure?" he said.

"That's not how it works," Miles replied with a less-than-amused twitch of his mouth. "Anyway, Roic's driving." The Armsman, with his own basket of lunch, was exploring the edge of the lake. "And he can carry me, if necessary. Or you, even. So," he added, lifting his glass in a formal salute, "happy birthday."

"Thanks," Mark said. He'd learned, over the years, to keep the sarcasm and self-deprecation out of his voice when answering good wishes, the expression of which was nearly always either harmlessly reflexive or mind-bogglingly sincere. He'd woken to a tight-beam recording of sincerity from Sergyar. The Countess's smile still had a tendency to dazzle him, though his father's eyes were what had lingered in his mind through the morning hours. Gray and deep like he bet this lake looked on a cold winter's day. Good thing it was summer.

"There's a cemetery under the water," Miles said on cue, gesturing. "Or used to be. They moved the graves when they flooded the valley." He took a sip of wine. "This is where I came on _my_ thirtieth birthday. To talk to the dead. I ended up having a party with the living instead. How life goes, I suppose."

"You have a lot of conversations with dead people?"

Miles laughed. "That's what Martin asked me that day. No, not much any longer. I did go up to Vorkosigan Surleau not long after the twins were born, to let Grandfather know I'd passed on his genes. But it felt awkward, speaking good news to a grave. It was easier when I was angry with him. How about you?"

"No," said Mark shortly. "Didn't even talk to you when you were dead. How about that picnic?"

Miles had brought Ma Kosti along to Vorkosigan Surleau, and it was Mark's _birthday,_ so he expected a treat. He was disappointed, to say the least, when he peeled back the lid of the first self-heating container, and found...

"What the fuck is this?" he snapped.

"Oatmeal," said Miles.

"The hell it is."

"It's Ma Kosti oatmeal, so it ought to be good. It goes with this," Miles said, reaching into the basket and removing a covered plate. When unwrapped, it proved to be a selection of raw vegetables with a little bowl of -- Mark sniffed -- blue cheese dressing.

"Is this some kind of ill-advised attempt to make me lose weight?" he said, mildly enough; now that the initial let-down was over, he was merely curious.

"No," said Miles. "It's a foolish brotherly attempt to relive some family history. Didn't Mother ever tell you the story of how she and Da met?"

"Oh," said Mark. "That." The trek across the wilds of Sergyar, captor and prisoner helping each other stay alive and growing closer as they fought fatigue and injury and... hunger. With no rations but instant oatmeal and blue cheese dressing. "Did anyone ever tell you you're too attached to your heritage?" he added, but he took a spoon and tried the oatmeal. It was unfairly delicious. He finished the whole container and even ate a few pieces of celery.

"Does Roic have oatmeal and blue cheese dressing too?" he said.

"I think he has sandwiches. Not bearing the burden of the Vorkosigan heritage." Miles chomped meditatively on a carrot. "We have eaten some strange things in our time. A lot of rat bars. Made of horse, in Grandfather's case."

"If there are horse bars in there, I'm throwing you in the lake," Mark said.

"No," said Miles. "I think... duck and pear salad with rice noodles." He handed the dish to Mark. "I asked Mother," he added, looking at Mark expectantly.

Mark started eating. It was a Ma Kosti special, all right, with subtle touches of sweet and sour and spicy in the seasoning, but something in the basic ingredients rang a bell of memory. He nudged Gorge, who had been in a snit since the oatmeal appeared, and got back _go away. Before my time._ "Oh," he said as the realization hit.

"Yes?" said Miles.

"This is the very first meal I ever ate with our parents. The day I arrived on Barrayar. An incredibly awkward lunch; we really had nothing to make small talk about. I ate a huge amount and they watched me like I was the monkey house at the zoo." He'd seen monkeys on Earth, with their odd faces, distorted echoes of humanity. "Relatives," he said. "Ha." He did remember clearly the relief, that nobody wanted to kill him and he temporarily didn't feel like throwing up. "This is really good," he added, letting another piece of gingery duck linger in his mouth before chewing and swallowing.

The next dish was Vorkosigan Surleau trout, with a bug butter sauce redolent of cardamom and orange. Ma Kosti had also made Mark's favorite bug butter creamed spinach. When it was time for dessert, he expected maple ambrosia, which he thought even Miles must have erotic dreams about, but instead it was Grandmother Naismith's honey cake, reportedly the one dessert she could make, and which she'd fed him on multiple occasions. And probably Miles too. They didn't seem to be on Beta at the same time ever, but of course they were both so busy these days.

"And more of Grandda's wine," he said, pouring himself another glass: pleasantly, mildly sloshed. "Good thing the old General never met me."

"Oh," Miles said, "I think he'd have liked... well. No. He'd have been appalled. But respectful. It's hard not to respect you. You have that in common with him."

"Painful honesty _and_ backhanded compliment. Thanks," Mark said, lifting his glass. "And I suspect Grandda and I earned our respect the same way. By killing people."

"A certain amount of strategic brilliance didn't hurt either," Miles said, with the implication that he was allowing Mark to share the lofty realm of Olympus. "I'd want you on my team if the Cetagandans invaded again."

"No, you'd want Kareen. She could sell them development rights in Vorkosigan Vashnoi."

Miles laughed. "I would indeed set Kareen at the ghem. The haut... if I disconcerted them, _you_ would..." He paused, then added, "Sorry. That was another--" A swipe of his arm, backhand.

"Doesn't bother me," Mark said, shrugging. "Once I knew I could disconcert you, big brother, I had no greater ambitions."

"Ha. Very funny. And very untrue." Miles leaned back on his elbows and gazed at the view for a moment, then lay supine and looked at the sky. "Mark," he said finally, "are you happy?"

He sounded like he actually wanted to know. "Yes," said Mark, surprising himself. "I am. I'll be happier when we close down the brain transplant trade for good, but I believe now that we'll get there. I enjoy chasing investments, I love Kareen, and the more kids Gregor and Laisa pop out, not to mention you and Ekaterin, the safer I feel. I'm... having _fun._ Which is not a concept that existed in my life ten years ago."

"Good," Miles said. "I'm glad. It's remarkable, isn't it, how lives can turn around?"

"Often when they intersect with yours, I've noticed."

Miles seemingly took a moment to consider this, and then said, "Oh. Huh."

"That hadn't occurred to you? Who were you thinking about?"

"Everybody. Simon."

"Well, _that_ one wasn't your fault. Entirely." Miles grinned, and Mark went on, "The happy ending's to your credit, though, I gather. You and Aunt Alys." Miles didn't answer, so Mark kept talking. "Six years ago, so... was he actually here for your birthday, or am I misremembering?"

"How can you misremember something I didn't tell you?"

"I have my spies."

"You don't even know Martin... oh. Ma Kosti."

"I hope you don't think she'd reveal how the Chief of Imperial Security got tipsy in a boat."

A beat of silence, and then, " _Simon_ told you?"

"Why is that so surprising, dear brother?"

Miles started to speak, then shook his head and instead said, "You are remembering wrong, anyway. Or possibly Simon... well. It was a while after my birthday. We did discuss it, though."

"Naturally. Did I ever tell you how glad I am that Galen didn't decide to time my birth to coincide with yours? Either of yours. Why'd you decide to stick with the first one, by the way?"

"Hm. Simon asked me that too."

*

"I was here six weeks ago or so," Miles said casually, sitting with Simon in the big room at Vorkosigan Surleau, drinking wine, a blazing fire on the hearth. They were pleasantly fatigued from the exercise of getting the boat ready for tomorrow's fishing adventure.

"For your birthday," Simon replied, whereupon a now-familiar pair of subtle expressions crossed his face: surprise that he'd remembered, and suspicion that Miles had been testing him. It was a better set than frustration and anger. "I suppose it was in a report," he added. "And I still have the information because it was personally important to me." He lifted his glass to Miles, signifying the entirety of the Vorkosigan-Illyan relationship.

Miles echoed the gesture. "Thank you."

"Thirty years and you've only died once," Simon said. "There were times I wasn't sure you'd make it. Starting at the very beginning." He frowned. "You had two birthdays, in fact, one before and one after the Pretendership. Why did you choose the first one to celebrate?"

Miles laughed. "Da used to joke that I was Dionysus, the Twice-Born. God of danger and chaos and theatre. And parties. But two birthdays a year was too much even for me. I suppose to some extent the choice was based in... well, Barrayaran prejudice, though I'd never admit that to my mother. The first was a 'real' birth-giving, the second..."

"Considerably less traumatic and painful," Simon put in. "Your mother nearly died during the surgery and was ill afterwards. When she was ready for visitors, I reluctantly but dutifully put in an appearance at ImpMil. Everything was my fault, I was sure, and I felt like shooting myself. That's all horribly clear still: what we said earlier, about emotions. What else I was doing with my time then, I can only make suppositions about. Investigating Vordarian, most likely."

"Well," said Miles after a short pause, "it's typically Barrayaran to value an event more because it was traumatic. Though I don't feel that way any longer, you know. If I ever do manage to convince" -- _Quinn_ \-- "some woman to marry me, I won't just bow to her will, I'll insist on using a replicator. No one has a better reason for that decision."

Simon's fingers made a little acknowledging wave. "You wouldn't be who you are without the accidents of your birth. Does that explain your birthday choice?"

"I think the reason I gave my parents at the time was that autumn was better than late winter for celebrations. And it made my party closer to Gregor's, if not so overblown. And it made me older than Ivan."

Simon laughed. "I expect the last was the most significant point."

"Well... yes. Not that I can remember very well, this long after." He caught Simon's wince. "Sorry."

"You don't need to spare me the words, Miles. I can take them. Remember, recall. Memory. Remembrance."

"Do you remember your thirtieth birthday?" The second the question left his mouth, he recognized how egocentric and unnecessary it was. But he'd said it now, and he was curious.

Simon thought for a moment, an obvious and fruitless searching that hurt to watch. "No," he said finally. "I don't. Which I think you'd find, if you surveyed people my age, to be common. I'm just used to being..."

 _Uncommon._ "God. Sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

"Yes, you should."

"No, really. It's not my place to ask you... especially something so personal, I mean, not that birthdays are private, it's in your records and--"

"Miles. Stop that. Now," and that was the old Simon, firm and acerbic.

"Yes, sir."

"Now say whatever you were going to say. Assuming you'd thought that far."

"Ouch." He took a breath, trying to improvise coherence. "Your birthday's not long after mine. The first one," he clarified, hoping it wouldn't be taken as a gentle reminder of Simon's birth date. "You must remember where you were, at least."

"Tanery Base." Simon looked surprised. "Yes. And... Cordelia was there, so it was either before or after... before. She hadn't gone after your replicator yet."

"Ah. Right," Miles said, the dates falling into place in his mind. "It's not like my father hasn't mentioned many times that you were made Chief of Imperial Security before you were thirty, but somehow I always think you're older than you are."

"Mm. Wonder why?" Simon said dryly. "And really I just slid under the wire of thirty with the promotion. Goodness, it was a very tense time to be having a birthday. Probably just as well I don't remember."

He seemed to be recalling more as he talked, though. "Was there cake?"

Simon made a face. "I've just had a sudden visceral recollection of bright blue icing smeared across the front of my best dress greens. Something to do with you." Miles opened his eyes wide in innocence. "For my thirtieth... no idea. It sounds like the sort of thing your lady mother would do."

"Yes. If there was anyone at Tanery Base who could bake, she'd have convinced them to produce a cake. And found candles to stick in it."

"Light in the darkness. Cordelia Vorkosigan's specialty." Simon sipped his wine, ceremonially, in what seemed a private toast. "The darker, the brighter. I look forward to more illumination."

*

The chip nudged Simon as he woke, as he cleaned his teeth, as he shoveled groats into his mouth for a hurried breakfast. It was an oddly shy, wary sort of nudge, with no content; it reminded him of a cadet on ImpSec rotation, wide-eyed and stammering, blushing when asked to offer an opinion. The chip was usually more of a confident lieutenant, breezing in with a polite but cocksure "You'll want to be seeing this, sir."

Ambivalence could be ignored. He rounded on the chip as he would have on that shy cadet, and mentally snapped out, "Cross-reference and compare the intelligence brought in by the Minister for Agriculture and that delivered by Major Vorbretten yesterday, with special reference to the possibility of disrupting rail shipments from Vordarian's District." It was not, strictly speaking, his job to plan sabotage ops, but Aral would likely ask for the analysis, and he might as well be prepared. Data tumbled into his conscious mind, important points flagged for his attention. The depot at Lake Orlova, yes... the siding at Müller's farm...

By the time he reached the meeting room, he had a fully formulated strategy to offer if it was wanted, plus several sequences of actions to slot into other people's proposed plans. Aral and Koudelka were already at the table.

"We're waiting for Kanzian?" he said as he slid into his seat. "And the Minister?"

"That meeting's, um. Been postponed," said Aral, looking uneasy. No -- Simon called up facial comparisons on his chip -- guilty. "We're waiting for Cordelia," Aral added.

Simon arched an eyebrow. Not that he would say so, but he'd had one or two meetings too many lately with Cordelia sitting in. She did often have startlingly brilliant ideas, but they were eclipsed by the muttering and small explosions. Which were, Simon noted, the strategies of the conquered.

The plan he'd conceived on the walk over featured several large explosions. "I thought about what Vorbretten said, regarding railways, and--"

"Save it, Simon."

"Of course, sir," he replied, trying not to look hurt. "What's this meeting about, then?"

"It's not exactly a meeting--" Aral began, and then the door opened, and Cordelia came in.

Carrying a cake with lighted candles in it.

With all the data he held in his head, Simon was not blindsided easily, and when he was he recovered fast. In an instant, today's date and its significance sprang front and center in his brain, and he realized what the chip had been up to. He'd purposely assigned his birthday a low priority rank, right at the bottom of the endless list of facts he needed to be reminded of. So it couldn't exactly _tell_ him, not without disobeying orders or starting an infodump he'd never recover from. But either it had sensed that birthdays were important, especially the ones with zeroes at the end, or it had observed something of Aral and Cordelia's preparations and kept the observation out of his conscious thoughts. In either case, it was displaying a disturbing amount of guile and autonomy. Though the nudges, in retrospect, rather tickled him. However, he couldn't deal with any of that here and now.

He forced an expression of surprise and pleasure onto his face. Across the table, Koudelka clapped his hands. "Oh, splendid!"

"Dear Captain," said Aral as she placed the cake on the table, "only you could discover a pastry chef on a military base. Barrett does beautiful work. For a weapons engineer." He gave Simon an expectant look.

"Thank you, milady," he said. Her mouth lifted at one corner. She'd told him over and over to call her Cordelia, and he was almost comfortable doing so now, but this was the favor of a liege lady to one who served her, not that of a friend, or so he was telling her.

"Happy birthday, Simon," she said. "And I know you'd rather I hadn't, but I couldn't let it go by unnoticed. It's your thirtieth, isn't it? How does it feel?"

"Significant," he admitted. "Like I'm getting old."

He wished he hadn't said it when Aral and Cordelia exchanged amused looks. "Yes, yes," he went on, irritated, "I know. A mere babe as yet."

"Blow out the candles, Simon," Cordelia said, "if your age-ravaged lungs are capable of it, and stop scaring Kou into thinking he'll dissolve into wrinkles when he hits thirty. Which will be some time from now, of course. I promise him a more spectacular cake."

"If we all survive this," Simon muttered, added a small apologetic "Boom," and blew out the three little flames. Ten years each, he assumed; each candle in a different style and probably from a different corner of the base. "Thank you again," he said, less grudgingly this time. Cordelia had put real effort into making sure his personal milestone got some acknowledgment.

She grinned and handed him a knife. "Save a piece for Drou," she said.

"And for the Count my father," put in Aral, offering up the plates and forks he'd hidden under the table. "He has a remarkable nose for sweets; I expect he'll be along soon."

The cake was big enough to divide into twelve slivers, in case some other people happened along. Simon served Cordelia first. When they each had a piece, he sat back and sampled his. Coffee-flavored. He supposed that was a witticism of sorts; they'd all been living on the stuff. "It's delicious," he said.

"I'll let Barrett know," she replied. "And your present, whatever it may be, will be delayed until we get another supply route opened."

Simon caught Aral's eye. "I've already had my present," he said. "And if I can requisition another ten kilograms of coffee, and some luck, I might be able to prove worthy of it."

"Barrayarans," Cordelia said under her breath, but the expletive lacked scorn. "To luck," she added, toasting them with her plate of cake.

"To luck," they chorused, and then kept eating.

"Sir," Koudelka said after a moment, addressing Aral, "I know it was a while ago, but what did you do to celebrate when you turned thirty?"

"Ancient history, certainly," Aral said, very dry, "but perhaps I can delve into the mists of time and remember. At thirty, hm. I wasn't an admiral _quite_ yet, so--"

"Captain Vorkosigan," a voice from the door interrupted, "was home on leave at the time. And I won't be surprised if he doesn't recall the event." Simon turned as Count Vorkosigan strolled into the room. He felt an urge to stand and salute, but settled for bowing his head slightly. "You were drunk," the Count added to Aral, "which made it no different from most other nights you were home. Although I gather you didn't touch the stuff on duty. You'd discovered responsibility by that point."

"Having been gifted with long and patient example," Aral said to his father, eyes hard. "And you're right; it's all a blur. I think... Padma was there. Must have had leave from the Academy. Damn, I hope he and Alys are... well. We all hope that. Yes, I remember Padma puking in a gutter. A good night, I surmise."

"Anything else?" Cordelia asked. "Preferably not with vomit involved."

Simon watched Aral think, and caught the precise moment that something disagreeable and... frightening?... occurred to him. "No," he said firmly. "Nothing else."

Count Piotr opened his mouth, clearly to contradict Aral, and Simon interjected, "Would you care for some cake, sir? It's my birthday. Thirty years old."

"Ah," said the Count, then, "Yes. Thank you, Captain Illyan. And congratulations."

Simon cut him a piece commensurate with his stature, and handed it over. "Lady Vorkosigan found a pastry chef in the armory, I gather," he explained.

"Mm," the Count said, tasting. "Very good. Better than what I had for my thirtieth. Dried horsemeat and all the gum-leaf I could chew, eh? We have limited amounts of sugar on base, I hope you realize," he added to Cordelia. "Not to mention flour and coffee and whatever else is in this."

"I do realize that, sir," she said, not giving a centimeter. "And I believe Captain Illyan is worth it."

"Hmph. And now we've heard from Aral, what, I wonder, did you get up to when you turned thirty, girl? Some Betan orgy, belike."

"I was on duty, actually," said Cordelia. "Lightyears from home. I'll always remember it, because we found a new wormhole that day, though as it turned out it didn't lead to anything particular. Most of the day I spent mapping the region, and then my captain called me into the break room and everyone sang to me and I had a glass of fizzy wine and then went back to work. No orgies, sorry." She smiled sweetly at the Count. "How about you, General?"

"Fighting the Cetagandans," he growled. "We killed a whole patrol of them. It was a good day."

"So you remember it," said Aral.

"I wasn't smashed out of my skull like some people, so yes. And it wasn't like we could write anything down, so we kept mental records. I was already a general, and had more to keep track of than most. You don't forget days like that." He nodded firmly. "More than the obvious in common with you there, Illyan," he added. "Early promotion in wartime. Good for you, I'm sure." It was a generous statement, especially considering that he'd become General Vorkosigan at twenty-two, though he didn't look like he thought Simon would measure up.

"Could you tell us more, sir?" Koudelka asked. "I mean... I like to hear stories about the war. It's not like I'll ever... I'll be riding a desk the rest of my service."

The Count gave him a sympathetic grunt. Simon noted Koudelka's cleverness: Aral always said "flying a desk" and Koudelka's active military career had occurred mostly in space, so the horsy reference had been deliberate.

"You want a story, do you?" Count Piotr said, and there was an edge of "fairy tales" in his voice. "I'll tell you what we did to the Cetas, then. Hope you have a strong stomach. Let me finish this cake first, and I'll make it short. We have another war to get on with."

*

The night was dark, and Piotr's eyes were tired. He could see where he was going, and then he couldn't, and things kept jumping out at him and then turning out to be tree branches and fence posts. Creeping along in long-practiced silence, keeping an ear out for the subtle sounds of the other men, he stepped incautiously over a log on the ground, and heard the fatal _click_ of a Ceta mine under his foot. The bastards knew how to torture: it wouldn't blow until he moved, but the explosion was inevitable.

 _No,_ he thought, _not now; I haven't--_ and then he got a glimpse of zebra paint in the gloom and he waited, waited to take the enemy with him, waited for the knife he wasn't supposed to see, grabbed the arm, and took his foot off the mine.

 _But I'm not on this patrol,_ he said to himself in the instant before death, _I'm the general; I stayed in camp and sweated._ He was both the ghem-warrior and himself, too, because the arm he'd grabbed was his own, and neither of them was blowing up, no flash of light and raining body parts and scent of blood. No, because the Cetas had rescued him intact, and taken him back to camp, and... cooked him, it was a smell of cooking, but not human flesh, because he'd smelled that, it was...

Bacon.

He sat up. He was in his tent, no mines, no Cetas, just the beginning of a sunny morning after a terrible night. It wasn't him who'd almost died on patrol, it was Ezar Vorbarra, who was now entering the tent carrying a tray with glorious bacon, and buckwheat cakes, and maple syrup, and... _bless you forever._ Coffee. They hadn't had coffee in months.

"Your breakfast, sir," Ezar said.

"Thanks," grunted Piotr, waving Ezar toward the little table. He got himself out of bed, stretched, rubbed his face, drew on his tattered uniform jacket against the cold -- he'd slept in the trousers -- and pulled a campstool next to the table. "Sit," he said. "You look like hell. Have some bacon; I can't eat all that." He could have eaten an entire pig. "Where'd we get it, anyway? I don't recall requisitioning that from the central supply depot."

Ezar smiled faintly; it was an old joke. "The usual way. Or one of them. That farmer who'd been hiding Cetas in his barn. We couldn't bring the live pigs back, unfortunately, but we saved the bacon. And luckily" -- he gulped a little -- "luckily it was Markov who had it in his pack, and not me."

Piotr hadn't had the whole story yet, but somehow Ezar had managed to lose his pack to a mine without losing any parts of himself. The other half of the patrol had confirmed, unfortunately not without losses, that the Cetas still held the other side of the river. He nodded. "And the coffee?" It was an unlikely thing for a Vorkosigan's District farmer to have, these days.

"The coffee's a present." Piotr gave him an eyebrow; he responded, "Felicitations, sir."

Piotr's mind was blank for a few seconds, and then he said, "Damn. It's my birthday, isn't it? What a stupid thing to be having during a war. Well, thanks, but you should have shared it out among the men."

"It's not really enough, sir."

"No," Piotr said, looking at the pot. "Enough for you and me, though." Ezar was trying to keep a longing look off his face. "Oh, come on. Sit down like I told you to. On the stool; I'll have the floor. Dig in."

"Thank you, sir."

"And call me by my name. I want to pretend I'm not a general for a few minutes." It would have been inexcusable weakness with most other people, but Ezar was good at shifting from one reality to the next smoothly and without lingering. It was probably his best trait.

"If you say so, Piotr," Ezar said, and sat down. He swiftly shared out the food and poured coffee into the one cup, offering it to Piotr.

"You first," Piotr said, feeling generous, and began to savor his breakfast, not speaking again until he'd finished and Ezar's turn with the cup was done. "Thank you. Where the hell did you get this?" he asked, after rolling the first mouthful of coffee around on his tongue for a while.

"Oh, it's not a present from me," Ezar said. "It's from your wife. She sent a courier with it and a letter."

"Letter? Why the bleeding fuck didn't you--"

"The accompanying note very clearly says to wait to give you the letter until you'd eaten. And I always do what the Countess orders."

If Piotr didn't want to feel like a general this morning, he certainly didn't want to feel like a Count. He hadn't been one long enough to get used to it. He'd been a general since forever. "Give it to me now. Or no. I'm not done with my coffee yet. Read it to me."

"Um. It's likely to be rather personal in nature."

"It's been carried through enemy lines and subject to censorship. I doubt it's that personal. Read it."

Ezar sighed. "Very well, sir." Piotr put the cup down and lay back on the floor. He wanted to savor this just as much as the bacon. A noise of paper sliding out of an envelope, and then, "No date or heading. She didn't want the Cetas to know where she is, if this was captured." He cleared his throat. "'My dearest Petryk.'"

It wasn't like Olivia to use diminutives, but perhaps she was feeling tender what with his long absence. "Go on."

"'My dearest Petryk, I miss you so very much and I am empty without you. I can see you in my mind's eye, standing up straight like a soldier, as if looking out into the distance.' Well, not at the moment," Ezar commented.

"Soldiers get to lie down occasionally too. I'll be sure to stand up straight later on. Continue."

"'I wish you were traveling home right now, over the long road. I hope that when you do, someday soon, you will pause at the babbling stream for a dip, plunging yourself deep into the familiar swimming hole of which we both make such good use.'"

Piotr frowned. Some kind of code? Olivia and he had never bathed in a swimming hole, and while he'd certainly plunged into plenty of streams in his life, he didn't think she was intimate with any of them.

Ezar was reading. "'And then you'll trail along through the valley and over the gentle hills, pausing at the peaks for a little stroll, around and around, and finally meander across the dimpled plain, with the forest of home in sight.' I didn't know you lived in a forest, Piotr."

"I don't. Not sure what she's on about." It must be a code, but what sort? Or simply a description of a landscape he was supposed to know, perhaps near the remote Vorbarra castle she was living in now. Was the enemy there? Had she written this to warn him, or had she already been captured? He pondered; the description was generic enough to refer to lots of places he'd seen. He could picture it, in broad terms. Peaked hills, with valleys nearby; a broad plain and a forest and someone's house... a home, a place he wanted to be...

_Oh._

A devilish whim told him to let Ezar go on. He'd already started. "'... fight your way through the brambles, pet the cat, and let yourself in the front door. And then out again. And in. And out. And...'" Silence. Piotr looked up; Ezar had gone bright red.

"Oh, blast," he said, sitting up and reaching out a hand. "Give it to me, idiot, and go stick your head in a bucket of cold water. Only my bloody half-Betan wife would write a letter to my... Petryk indeed." _Pet the cat. You wanton little minx, I'll do more than that. And look, I'm half upright already._ "Sorry, Ezar. You were right about the rather personal nature. Here, you finish the coffee. You need it more than I do." He grabbed the letter out of Ezar's unprotesting hand and scanned the lines again, grinning to himself. She'd signed it with a flourish and written a postscript (addressed to "General Count, sir") telling him that she was well and so was his son, the son he had yet to see. He was ready to father another one, right there and then. Just touching the page was tantalizing.

 _All worked up and no place to go._ Except another damned council of war. There'd been primitive Earth tribes who'd... what? Painted themselves blue and gone into battle hard and thrusting. He thought he could kill a Ceta or two himself today. Rather personally. In fact, he was beginning to have ideas....

....

Many long tense and triumphant hours later, he strolled through the campground with Ezar, his uniform stiff and stinking but his mouth curved into a smile. "Let's see what the latest reconnaissance tells us," he said, "but I'll bet you ten marks there are no more Cetas left between us and Hassadar." He wasn't going to say it out loud, for fear of jinxing himself, but it was starting to look like they might win this thing.

"I won't take that bet, sir," Ezar said. "It was a splendid day, wasn't it? All due to your brilliant idea about hiding in the river."

"You played your part well, too. If I'd known you had a talent for honey traps, I'd have set you in one before now. That Ceta boy, when you stripped down to go swimming... I could just see him thinking" -- he gave Ezar a wallop, low down -- "my, what a gorgeous ass. For a Barrayaran."

"Thank you, sir," Ezar said, giving him a brief sideways glance. That ass, Piotr thought with a sigh, was probably going to be his consolation prize tonight, if he could muster the energy, or that deep swimming hole of a mouth. Happy birthday, General. Belike.

"Well, thanks to you he's dead. Good knife work, that." Ezar grinned at the compliment. Piotr flexed his knife hand; he'd killed three himself that way today. A very long and successful day. And no, he really couldn't find the energy for anything else. "Time we were getting into our bunks, I think--" he started to say, when he heard hoof beats.

He'd pulled Ezar into the shelter of a tent before he even put a name to the threat; he peered out, watching, as five horses trotted into the compound and the riders started to dismount. They'd been challenged, he knew, so either the guards were dead or these were friends. The reconnaissance team had gone off in a flyer, but maybe... and then one of the riders took off a leather helmet and shook out her long dark hair, and he was out of hiding, strolling across the packed dirt, not hurrying, forcing himself to maintain a casual gait when he wanted to run.

"Countess," he said when he'd got within three meters of her, "do you mind telling me what the hell you're doing here, risking yourself--"

"It's not every day my husband turns thirty. I thought you'd like some company. You got my letter, I hope."

"Your letter," he said, willing his mouth not to twitch, "was not very informative as to your... movements."

"I'd think you could have imagined them," she answered, and reached out to take him by the arms as he came close. At least half the men in camp were watching them by now; he didn't care. He kissed her, hard.

"You're alone," he said as he released her; _alone_ in the sense of _only four guards._ "Where's--"

"Your heir is safe, Piotr. And well protected. I'm Vor. I know my duty, and I always do it. Though I must say," she added, wriggling closer to him and playing with the top button of his jacket, "as political marriages go, this one has been a lot of fun. So, love. I'm here; what are you planning to do with me?"

"Hm. Not sure. Send you home?"

She was very close to him now. "Oh, I see little Petryk misses me, even if you don't. It's very dark and scary out there tonight, if not nearly so full of Cetagandans as I expected. I really can't go home at least until the morning. Have you a spare bed?"

By now, _every_ man in camp was watching. Might as well give them a show. "We're full up; I'm afraid you'll have to share," he murmured, and captured her mouth again. After the energetic kiss that followed, he steadied his breath and then said, low and tight and loving, "Damn it, Olivia, you are the loveliest thing on God's red earth, and the worst-behaved. Get into my tent, woman, and by tomorrow I'll have taught you not to use diminutives."

*

"So," said Count Piotr, "it was the kind of day that proves a man's worth. I wasn't any too sure of Ezar Vorbarra up till then, but he did well for himself in that fight, and never looked back. Ruthless killers, that's what we needed in those hard days. And less than a year later we'd routed the Cetas for good."

It had been a longer and more detailed tale than the Count had promised, incessantly violent and disturbing. Or rather, it would have disturbed Simon if he hadn't seen much worse already. He suspected that Piotr was conflating several battles into one, not because of poor memory but in a purposeful attempt to upset Cordelia, which meant the old man still didn't know his daughter-in-law very well.

During the story several other people, including Admiral Kanzian, had wandered in, listened for a while, and eaten pieces of Simon's cake. Cordelia had hung onto the last piece for Drou, who was spending the morning in the gym and probably didn't want the extra calories. Piotr had been eyeing it, and huffed off when his greed was denied, and Cordelia, justifiably concerned that he'd come back to steal it, took it off for delivery. Koudelka followed, with a _really I have something important to do_ air about him.

"Well," said Aral, "we have a meeting to get to." They both stood, and Aral clapped Simon on the shoulder. "Happy birthday, Captain Illyan. Sorry about..." He gestured: _about Father and his stories,_ Simon interpreted.

"No need to apologize. It was... interesting."

Aral's mouth twisted. "He didn't make any of it up, you know. He's just playing with chronology. Actually..." He paused.

"What?"

"Once, when he was seriously pissed off at the drunken folly of my mid-twenties, he gave me a lecture in which he said, among other things, that he wished I'd never been conceived. On his thirtieth birthday, he happened to note."

It was clearly a blow Aral hadn't recovered from yet, though he was hiding the bruise. "So you think he wasn't fighting Cetagandans at all that day."

"Well, he was, in a sense. Providing heirs to carry on the war." Aral sighed. "I'd rather be fighting them than other Barrayarans. Come on, let's get--"

"Aral." _He doesn't hate you; he's proud of you. He couldn't ask for a better son._ Nothing he could say would make any difference; they had to battle it out for themselves. "Never mind. While we walk, let me tell you the idea I had about Lake Orlova..."

*

"Simon. Wake up."

"Mm?" A blink, and Simon's eyes opened, and he gave Miles a sheepish look. "I fell asleep, sitting on the sofa. God, I am getting old."

"I'm pretty tired myself. Just wanted to make sure you made it to your bed. Big day tomorrow."

"Fishing. See," Simon said dryly, "I remembered. Thank you for waking me."

"You're welcome. Also," Miles said, feeling very tentative, "I forgot to say something."

"And what would that be?"

"Happy birthday. You had one too, lately."

Simon's eyelids flickered; it was one of the looks he used to have, accessing his chip, and Miles bit the inside of his lip. "Yes," Simon said, "I did. If my calculations are correct, I was raving and carrying on like a mad person on the day. Not very happy."

"It's the kind of expression you're not supposed to analyze."

"And yet," said Simon.

"Regard it as a wish for the future and not a description of any particular twenty-six hours, all right? You do intend to be happy, I hope."

Simon's lip twitched. "It's a laudable intent. Let's see what happens."

"Well, and there you are. Do you..." Miles caught himself, took a breath, and went on. "Remember how awful Gregor's thirtieth birthday was? I think he must have entertained every single neurotic fantasy about that milestone that exists, plus a few he invented. He wasn't anything like as clever and capable as a man his age should be; he did nothing but work all day long and all his chances for fun were past; his life was over and he hadn't made anything of it; he had at least forty more years of agony to endure unless some war or assassin relieved him of it; he hadn't managed to get laid in ages; nobody loved him and no one ever would and he was a rotten emperor. None of them true, of course. Well, except the getting laid part." Simon was shaking his head. "You wouldn't know, of course. Not the... un-chippy part of you, because it would have hurt you to know and Gregor's very good at not letting people see things that hurt them. I only know because I happened to be on-planet at the time and got drunk with him."

"And five years later, Dr. Toscane happens along. Yes."

"I hope _I_ don't have to wait five years." Simon gave him a perfectly bland look of the sort that habitually sent him into desperate flurries of guilt. Or self-justification. "Sorry."

A beat, and then: "Did you just apologize for my sex life, Miles?"

"Um. Noblesse oblige? Or none of my business."

"Indeed," said Simon with an odd smile. "Well, thank you for the birthday wishes. I'm glad no one brought me a cake; it would have ended up in poor Vorberg's face, no doubt. At least temporary insanity is a way to avoid suffering through one of the zero endings."

He meant numbers, Miles realized after a few seconds. "Well... it's a good parallel, anyway. You and me and thirty. We both got new jobs, for one thing."

"Yes." Simon's eyes glinted; he hadn't missed that the reason for Miles's new job was Simon. And, if you stretched a point, the reason for Simon's new job had been... well, all right. Gregor.

 _Chief of Imperial Security before thirty._ He wouldn't have beat that no matter what. Nor would he have wanted to.

"Though I guess mine's a temporary" -- _insanity_ \-- "posting. Who knows what'll happen next. Well, what's next is I'm going to bed. Big day tomorrow."

"You said that already," said Simon, with just a hint of triumph.

*

Clouds, dark and looming, had been forming on the horizon for some time before Mark realized their significance. He'd been admiring their shape and constant subtle alteration, the shadings of gray and near-black and pure white, the luminous margin of hidden light. Not trying to draw analogies, to relate them to anything human, just... meditating, he supposed. Experiencing the clouds without judgment or prejudice.

 _Pretty fucking stupid, Mark._ He looked down. Miles was snoring on the ground. Somehow he looked older when he was asleep; that wasn't supposed to happen. "Hey," he said, nudging his brother.

"What."

"There's a storm coming."

Miles lifted his head and opened his eyes slightly. "Hm. Well, if Roic had any doubts about getting us home safely, he'd have said something by now."

"Roic's probably asleep."

"He's on duty. Ye of little faith," Miles pronounced, and closed his eyes again.

"I think we should be going," Mark said, persistent.

"Oh," said Miles after a moment, not moving. "I see what this is about. We still have" -- he peered at his chrono -- "three hours until Kareen's scheduled to arrive."

"What if she gets there early?"

"Y'know," Miles said, pushing himself up to a seated position, "the two of you, you're just adorable." He paused. "You're not going to object to the word?"

"You and Ekaterin have been known to be adorable as well. Though she," Mark pointed out, "is all the way in Vorbarr Sultana and staying there."

"What? She's busy. And you're the one celebrating. Hm," Miles added. "I think you may well be the first person in the family for at least three generations to get to have sex on your thirtieth birthday."

Mark laughed. "Well. That was unexpectedly Betan of you."

"Who do you think told me neither she nor Da had?"

"I'll savor the honor, then. Loudly." He thought for a moment. "What was Grandda up to?"

"Fighting Cetagandans."

"And the Naismiths?"

"Oh, all right; they were probably having sex. First in three generations on this planet. Satisfied?"

Mark grinned. "Not yet." Miles reached out absently and threw a spoon at him. "Clouds are bigger now," he pointed out. "Closer. Darker."

"And" -- Miles sat up farther -- "here comes Roic." The Armsman was striding up the slope, occasionally slipping and putting out a hand to catch himself, but getting closer at a faster rate than the clouds. "He enjoys a little turbulence in his flying," Miles went on, "but he doesn't like to cut it _too_ close. Hope you won't mind the bumps."

"I think I can handle them." Mark started packing up the remains of the picnic, and after a moment of staring at the clouds Miles joined in. He seemed, Mark observed, to be rather stiff and sore; served him right for lying on the ground, but he'd need Roic's help to reach the lightflyer. "Thank you, by the way," Mark said. "For bringing me here. It was... far more tolerable than I expected."

"Thank you for indulging me."

"I bet you say that to all your brothers."

"But you know you're my favorite." Miles's smirk faded. "I'm... really glad you're here, Mark."

The first raindrops hit as Mark considered a range of soppy replies; relieved of the obligation, he stood up, spread his arms out, and turned up his head to meet the deluge: dizzy, on top of the world, joyful and unsatisfied and impatient, thirty.


End file.
